Page 30 of Letters From A Stalker

“He’s my therapist.”

“And?”

“And stop making it weird.”

There’s a pause. Not a teasing one this time.

“Am I making it weird, or are you?”

I exhale louder than my neighbour's fat cat while suntanning after a meal.

“I’m going to hang up now.”

“Julia.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

I put the knife down. “There’s nothing weird. I had one appointment with the man.”

“Okay.”

“He’s attractive. I have eyes. That doesn’t mean anything.”

“I didn’t say it did.”

“You implied it.”

“I asked whether you thought about him.”

“That is implying.”

“That is literally asking a question.”

I hate when she does this. I hate it slightly more that it reminds me of him.

“I said you looked guilty. That doesn’t automatically mean the guilt belongs there.”

Apparently my life is now populated exclusively by people who weaponize semantics.

“Yes,” I admit. “I’ve thought about him.”

Tessa is silent. Suspiciously silent and I look at the screen just in time to catch her grinning. “Oh, fuck off.”

“I didn’t say anything!” She laughs but turns serious over whatever expression I have on my face. “Fine. Why have you thought about him?”

I look down at the vegetables scattered across the cutting board. Because he irritated me. Because he made me laugh when I didn’t want to. Because he looked at me as if everything I did meant something, and somehow managed to make that attention feel less like judgment and more like curiosity. Because when I told him I was fine, he looked straight at me and said “No, you weren’t” with a certainty that should have pissed me off far more than it did. Because he told me I didn’t have to make myself smaller, and I’ve spent the last three days noticing all the ways I do exactly that.

“Because he gave me homework,” I say.

Tessa sighs. “Coward.”

“Love you too.”

“Tell Dr. Hotwood I said hi.”

“I will absolutely not be doing that.”